


5 am

by missmariie



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gallows Humor, M/M, POV weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmariie/pseuds/missmariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hathaway is hardly the cheeriest person in the world, especially not at 5 am</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 am

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading Ulysses for a course, and I decided to give focalisation a go. In other words, we're sort of in Hathaway's head. A huge huge thanks to Garonne, who got me into this fandom accidentally, and then beta'd my fic, and also to The Small Hobbit who beta'd for me. They were amazing!

First night back from leave and his phone rings before 5am. It’s Lewis, with a body no doubt. Bloody typical. Just when it gets colder before the sun rises too; busy old fool.  
“Sir?”  
And he sounds about as bad as he feels. Joy.  
“Morning Hathaway.”  
His boss sounds gruff but unusually cheerful. Maybe happy to have him back? That’d be nice, but it’s probably a bit fanciful. Still, if you’re not allowed to be pathetic at five in the morning…  
It’s a stabbing victim found in somebody’s hen house. Would be nice to wake up to a different kind of body. Warm, willing, not planning to murder him. Actually alive. Alive would be nice.

It’s colder than he thought; the tap water is so frigid he brushes his teeth gingerly. Depressing to realise that when he grimaces at the mirror he’s just deepening his permanent expression. That must mean there’s something wrong with him. Groundless maybe; too wrapped up in his own head for sure. I am the self-consumer of my woes. Is everyone in the world as miserable as he is? Hope not, that’d be depressing.  
He tries to straighten his shoulders as he flattens his hair with his hands, but they’re still rounded. The slouch is there to stay. Maybe he would seem older if he ironed it out; more worthy. He doesn’t know why he bothers, except that he does. It’s just pointless; he may as well be trying to touch a star. What do they say again: ‘shoot for the moon, even if you miss you’ll land amongst the stars’? And die of asphyxiation. Now that sounds more like his luck.

As he gathers up his keys, he is struck by the absurdity of that thought. Lewis doesn’t belong in the sky. He’s more of a rock than a cloud. That’s probably not exactly flattering, but Hathaway has had a number of more flattering thoughts about his DI, and some of them aren’t exactly appropriate for a work morning. Still, the way he means it, the rock thing isn’t an insult. Lewis is solid, reliable, hard, - and oh, that’s done it! Repressing a blush already and it’s only a quarter past five.

When he sees the mess in his seat that’s still left over from the festival, he slouches back against the car to feel sorry for himself for a moment. He goes cross-eyed looking at the fog from his breath rather than shift the clutter. Tiny fragments of water. It’s pretty really. Used to think he turned into a dragon when he slept because of it. The small collection of CDs looks impossibly heavy in his exhausted state.  
“Damn.”  
Even his curses are half-hearted this morning.  
Ah well, Lewis will be waiting, and he doesn’t exactly have a good excuse for lateness. ‘I’m sorry Sir, my CDs were too heavy to move so I decided to stare at them instead.’ Hah! He’ll have to command some strength into his wrists and get it over with.

The steering wheel is cold, and the instant he turns the key in the ignition an overly cheerful Irish folk song that he bought while he was still soaring from the festival starts up. Folk and world music. He’d enjoyed the folk more than he thought he would. Maybe it’ll just annoy him now the world is dreary again. Festivals are bright. Everyone seems happy. Not like here. The poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. Folk people are colourful. Literally. Bloody ponchos everywhere.  
He turns off the music. He definitely belongs to this world. Long black coat and his work clothes. Then again, Lewis wouldn’t exactly fit there either. First cheerful thought of the morning. Imagining Lewis in a poncho is the second.

 

The crime scene is bloody cold. Probably better that way; appropriate somehow. Sad too: found by a twelve year old going to feed the chickens before school. Too young to see that. She’ll have nightmares now. I long to sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept. Do kids really sleep soundly? He once dreamt that a nazgûl gnawed off his hand. It felt like sandpaper. Scary though; woke up with his heart pounding. The kid’s old enough to have stopped believing in monsters. Now she’ll know they’re real. Damn. Hard to believe he ever looked that young. He found out about real monsters and shitty human beings at the same time. There IS a difference. There weren’t many monsters, but everyone’s a shitty human being occasionally. He should know.

He’s arrived relatively early; uniforms are still chasing the hens around the yard. The scene is a bit ridiculous really. Look at Gurdip, cursing about being too old for this. If he teases him, knowing his luck Lewis will be standing behind him, and then he’ll be chasing the damn things all morning. Better keep his mouth shut.  
“Morning Sergeant!”  
She’s new. He doesn’t know her name.  
“Morning.”  
She holds a chicken out for him to see it. Makes it look like an offering. Its feathers are ruffled; wonder if that’s uncomfortable.  
“The girl froze up when she saw the poor bastard. Let the damn things out. Doctor Hobson reckons they’ll wreck all the evidence if we don’t pick them up.”  
He stares down at the bedraggled bird. Bok. It makes one disgruntled greeting and stays put. Tired or scared? It’s got blood on its… ah. Argh. Ugly world. Still, a hen will eat leftovers from a chicken roast, so he shouldn’t’ve expected otherwise. No wonder Hobson wants them out of the yard. Makes it easier to keep a sober face when one of the constables starts swearing at the unfortunate bird he’s cornered though.

“What a morning, eh?”  
Lewis. Hathaway has been at this long enough that hearing his voice unexpectedly hardly messes with his heart rate. He’s an old hand at this. In an established relationship with his unrequited feelings. Pathetic! Probably should’ve married them already.  
“Hello Sir.”  
He has to turn to see him, but after a week away, it’s worth it. Objectively, Robbie isn’t that attractive. Objectively. Hathaway isn’t objective at 5 am. Robbie’s eyes are very blue, especially in the fresh sun. There’s one good thing about mornings.  
“Uniform look none too happy.”  
“They’re in a fowl mood sir.”  
Ah, damn! His lips twitched as he said it, and Robbie’s seen it as he glanced sideways. God he looks good like that though, face going from faintly suspicious to smiling. Hearty chuckle too. Might be his favourite noise.  
“Ah, I missed you lad.”  
He can just about hear the swoosh of his heart turning over. It’s just as well he doesn’t blush easily. He’d almost believed he was past all that silly nonsense, but all it took was a tiny declaration and bam! everything crumbled. Now they’re studiously not looking at each other while they snigger.

It’s a lovely morning, and he’s ten foot tall all of a sudden. 5 am with dragon’s breath, but the air isn’t frigid anymore. The sun’s out. Maybe he can glow for a minute. James Hathaway: a good detective, occasionally shitty human being and someone Robbie Lewis could miss. Maybe there’s something to be said for being that man.


End file.
